


The Return of Mr. Smiley

by Severina



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-03-08
Updated: 2004-03-08
Packaged: 2017-10-10 05:23:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/96036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This time it's Justin's birthday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Return of Mr. Smiley

I sit on the floor, hastily cramming papers into my already overflowing backpack.

I hate being late. Hate it more than Deb pinching my cheeks. Hate it more than Em calling me "sweetums", an annoying habit that he took up a few months ago and won't seem to drop. Hate it more than three-hour art history lectures and twelve-hour diner shifts and that screechy, whiney noise from the door that never gets fixed, no matter how many times I ask the fucking landlord to get off his fat, hairy ass and do it.

I hate being late even more when it's my own damned fault.

But I've become accustomed to a certain weekday morning routine. Alarm goes off, hit snooze. Alarm goes off, hit snooze. Alarm goes off, attempt to hit snooze, get stopped mid-motion by Brian. Brief wrestling match. Curse Brian repeatedly when he pulls duvet off bed. Stumble to bathroom, relieve myself, curse a little more. Join Brian in shower. Suck him off. Get sucked off. Leave shower refreshed in more ways than one.

So when the customary ten-minute blow-job trade-off turned into an unexpected yet entirely satisfying fifty-five-minute fuck session -- shit, I really thought that Brian would end it when the water turned cold, but no, we'd just moved to the counter, and I was going to have the bruises to show for that soon enough -- well, who was I to say No? Not that I didn't try. I distinctly remember opening my mouth to tell Brian that we didn't have time. We'd be late. Yes, I remember that. Unfortunately, what flew from my mouth was a string of incomprehensible vowel sounds instead of the crisp, clean, precise pronouncement I'd heard in my head. Brian has to take at least part of the blame for that, though. It certainly isn't my fault that Brian can do that… thing… with his tongue.

The more I think about it, the more it seems that it isn't my fault that we're late at all. After all, Brian knows that I'm a sucker for those long, slow, wet kisses. And that tongue thing. Expecting me to resist that is like expecting Ted to turn down free porn.

So when the envelope flutters down to land on top of my partially-finished paper on Post-Impressionism in the Modern Age-- the paper that I'm now going to be using my free period to complete, not that I give a flying fuck about post-impressionism in any age -- I merely bat it away with a muttered grunt of annoyance. Fucking Brian and his fucking tongue.

But curiosity gets the better of me. I have to know. So only a few seconds go by before my hand is snaking out to furtively claim the envelope. I glance up at Brian, but he's already sauntering across the room. He tosses his briefcase on the counter, then buries his head in the fridge as he searches out his favourite morning energy drink. Well, his second favourite.

Brian is acting, in fact, like he has all the time in the world. The asshole.

And even though we're late -- very fucking late -- I flip the envelope in my hand, only then noticing the bright yellow happy face stuck in the corner. Okay, now I really have to know. The contents empty easily into my palm, and for a moment I can only stare blankly at the slip of paper. I blink, studying it with narrow eyes, flicking the thick paper absently with my index finger.

"Brian," I finally call out, waiting for him to look up from whatever disgusting protein-and-seaweed-filled concoction he's drinking this morning. His eyes meet mine over the rim of his glass. "Thank you."

A pause. A lift of his shoulders. Then he turns away.

I turn the gift certificate over, rubbing my finger over the raised print. Five hundred bucks. I should be jumping for joy right now. I can get some great shit at Media Mania with five hundred dollars. It's a nice gift. It's just that it's not very… personal.

Peripherally I'm aware of the water running in the sink. The sounds of Brian rinsing his glass -- not once, but twice -- another morning routine that I know by heart. Just like I know that when he's done, Brian will move to the counter and check his briefcase to make sure he didn't forget anything. And that he'll glance at the windows to confirm they're closed before we leave for the day.

I guess he knows the same kind of things about me. He knows that I'll skip breakfast, opting to pick up a coffee and a muffin at the café across from school. He knows that I need to refill the suckers in my backpack, because I can't get through the day without a sugar fix. And he knows that I can never remember where my shoes ended up the night before.

And that I've been drooling over a new digital art program for months, and that it's something I need -- something I want, with that same kind of skin-prickling, heart-racing yearning that I used to feel for crayola art box sets when I was a kid. He remembered, without any poking or prodding from me or anyone else, and so what if it's not wrapped up in hearts and flowers and big red bows? He remembered, and he picked out something that would make my heart race, only my heart, and when did I turn into such a selfish prick that that wasn't enough?

I ease up from the floor just as he's snapping his briefcase shut.

"Brian."

He starts to turn away, but stops when my hand comes to rest on his shoulder. He raises his face to mine, eyebrow arched. Waiting.

And what the fuck do I say? How do I tell him how much this means -- how much he means -- when the only words that come to mind will freak him out? I can't. I can only repeat his name again, softly, and squeeze his shoulder, breathe his air, share his heat.

He knows. He wraps his free hand around my neck and presses his forehead lightly against mine.

"Happy Birthday," he says against my lips.

It is. It really fucking is. I smile, suddenly aware of the possibilities for this day. For every day. First day of the rest of my life, and all that. It suddenly seems that I can do anything. Be anything.

"Now," Brian swats me on the ass, rudely interrupting my Justin-rules-the-world daydream, "get your shit. We're going to be late."

"Fuck you," I mutter, still smiling. "By the way, the windows are closed."

"Yeah," he smirks right back, nodding toward the desk, "and your shoes are over there."

* * *

"So," Daphne says, scarfing one of my fries, "do you feel any older?"

"Not really," I mumble around a mouthful of mozza burger. But that's a lie. I do feel older. Which is totally lame, because I'm absolutely no different that I was yesterday morning, except for the whole well-fucked-before-school thing. And even that isn't such a rare occurrence as to tip my equilibrium for the day.

It's just… Twenty-one. It seems like such an important number. Like suddenly I'm going to have to be a grown-up and start thinking about IRA's and planning for my future. I picture myself wearing little John Lennon specs and talking about mutual funds. Gah.

Daphne's looking at me with that "whatever" look that I know so well. I shrug. "It's just another day."

"WhatEVER," she says. Yeah, I know that look. "I'll have you know that I don't treat you to a fabulous meal at the diner on just any old day."

"On behalf of my clogged arteries, I thank you most sincerely." I gesture with an onion ring to the art photography book she gave me. Images of 9-11 from professionals to amateurs. It's sure to be stark and surreal and achingly breathtaking. "Thanks for everything."

She nods, and shrugs, and smiles. Twiddles with her braid. Takes a long sip of her coke. Bats her eyes. And keeps looking at me. Expectantly. It's killing her not to ask. I'm almost tempted to change the subject, but I'm pretty sure she'd hit me. Or throw her purse at me. Daphne has deadly accuracy with small objects.

"He got me a gift certificate to Media Mania," I say, putting her out of her misery. "Five hundred bucks."

"Oh." Daphne takes another sip of her coke. She reaches across the table to my plate. "You gonna finish those fries?"

"Daph!" I slap her hand away. "It's an awesome gift. With the money I have put aside and the gift certificate that Mel and Linds got me, I have enough to get--"

"--the new and improved, advanced, can-do-anything blah blah blah," Daphne finishes. "Yeah, I know. It's just not very…"

"What?"

She fiddles with her straw before raising her eyes to mine. "Romantic."

"No, it's not." I lean back in the booth, crossing my arms at my chest. "It's practical. And it's what I want. And it's Brian thinking of what I want and not what he thinks I should want."

"I guess." She hesitates a moment, then smiles and leans forward to rest her hand on my arm. "And if you're happy, I'm happy."

"I'm happy," I assure her, wiggling my eyebrows. "If I told you how deliriously happy Brian made me this morning, you'd weep. And then join a convent."

I dodge the onion ring Daphne tosses just as Deb reaches our table. "Deliriously happy? I could use some of that. Deliriously happy over what?"

"The birthday present that Brian gave him," Daphne answers with a cheeky grin.

Daphne never did learn to keep her mouth shut. I close my eyes and steel my body against the inevitable.

"Birthday!" I'm sure Deb's shriek sends birds scattering from the power lines in abject terror. Somewhere puppies are whimpering, tails tucked between their legs. "Sunshine, why didn't you tell me it was your birthday?"

"He's shy," Daphne giggles. I shoot her a dirty look, even though it's good that she spoke up before I said what was on the tip of my tongue. Namely, that Deb has known me since I was seventeen, and my birthday shockingly falls on the same day every year, and it's also the same day as her fucking son-in-law's, and maybe she should have remembered herself. Which, in hindsight, would have been really fucking rude.

"Shy, my ass," Deb snorts before turning to me, eyes gleaming. "Sunshine, you and Brian are coming over this Sunday for a birthday dinner. We'll have gnocchi, and I'll get Vic to whip up one of his fancy salads. And I'll make my Betty Crocker Golden Deluxe." I narrowly avoid being skewered by one of her talons as she wags her finger at me. But at least I'm able to force myself not to shrink back into the seat like an errant child. Something about Deb makes me feel like a twelve year old. "You're coming and I don't want to hear another word!"

"Okay," I say meekly. I know better than to mess with Debbie when she's on a mission.

"Oh." She looks bewildered for a moment, then leans down and pinches my cheek. I'm fairly certain I'm able to cover my wince with a convincing grin. Persuading Brian to spend most of his Sunday afternoon at the House of Kitsch will be a much trickier business.

"Okay, then. Four o'clock. It'll be a real party!"

"Party?" Em's voice intrudes on the table. "What's this about a party?"

"It's Sunshine's birthday!" Deb shouts loud enough to turn heads several tables over. It's nice that my birthday inspires such glee, but this is kind of ridiculous. And embarrassing.

"Sweetie!" Emmett leans down to buss my cheek. "Well, it simply isn't a party unless a party planner is involved, and you happen to know the best one in town! Uh… that would be me." He sweeps out a notebook and hastily scribbles something on the paper. "Now, we need a theme…"

Oh god. A theme.

"Em," I begin, "really, that's sweet, but--"

He ignores me completely. "Let's see, what would work for your -- twentieth, isn't it?"

"Mardi Gras!" Daphne suggests, ignoring my scowl in her direction. I could stab her with my butter knife. I really could. But Deb would just make me clean up the mess, even though my shift doesn't start for hours. Life is sometimes so unfair.

"Ohhhh! The 1920's!" Deb throws out. "Flappers, the Charleston, gangsters…"

Oh fuck. If Brian has to dress up as Al Capone, I'll never make it to my twenty-second.

"It's a nice gesture," I try again, sounding a bit desperate even to my own ears, "but I really think something simple--"

"I've got it!" Em crows triumphantly. Deb and Daph turn their eager attention to him, while I close my eyes and await the announcement of my fate.

"The Renaissance!"

I barely suppress my groan, while Emmett accepts the oohs and aahs of the women with much false modesty, if I do say so myself. And I do. Only I say it internally, because I don't want to hurt Emmett's feelings. Or Daphne to throw her purse at me. Those little beads really sting.

"It's perfect," Em is saying, arms waving wildly. "A time of change, of renewal, of fresh starts and new horizons."

Ohhh-kay. I bury my head in my arms. I wonder how hard it would be to come down with pneumonia by Sunday. Maybe a lot of cold showers would do it. Wait. I've got it. I'll visit that garden centre out by the interstate. Throw my allergies right out of whack. Perfect.

"Justin? Baby?" One of Deb's long nails pokes repeatedly into my arm until I lift my head. "Doesn't it sound wonderful? We'll give you a party to end all parties!"

I open my mouth to tell them that I don't want a party, that a simple family get-together would be more than sufficient. But seeing their enthusiastic faces, I just can't do it. So I plaster on a grin. "Wonderful."

Deb smiles, and Em closes his notebook with a firm snap. "That's settled then," he says, already making his way to the door, "and I have tons to do to be ready by Sunday. I'll see you then. Happy Birthday, sweetums!"

"Sweetums?" Daphne mouths.

I groan aloud this time. "Don't ask."

"Now -- lemon bars!"

"Uh… Deb… I'm really pretty stuffed…"

"Don't be silly; you're a growing boy!" Deb contradicts immediately. "Four lemon bars coming up!"

Of course. Why would I know whether I'm full or not?

Daphne laughs as Deb barrels her way to the counter. I stick my tongue out at my best friend. Maturity, after all, is highly overrated.

* * *

I fling back the door to the loft half-heartedly, wincing at the screech as it moves laboriously along its track. Fucking landlord. How hard is it to buy some WD-40?

I let my backpack slip from my fingers as I toe off my sneakers. Consider setting the alarm, but my brain is too fried to remember the number. I can, however, remember with disquieting accuracy exactly what most of the diner patrons ordered this evening. My brain stinks. And my body matches it. I smell like I've been marinated in fry oil and chicken batter, then set to simmer in the sun for a few days. So very attractive.

My mind is about 80% occupied with the thought of taking a shower. Hot water and scented soap -- fuck it, tonight I'm using Brian's sage/sandalwood/costs-more-than-the-clothes-on-my-back imported shit, and if he doesn't like it, he can kiss my ass. The other 20% of my brain is busy with counting up the nights tips. Working on my birthday sucks, but the tips were phenomenal.

So I'm halfway across the room before I see this… thing… sitting on the counter. I blink. A couple of times. Slowly. But it doesn't fade. It's not a mirage brought on by an overdose of day-old grease fumes. I know that I didn't ingest any mind-altering substances today, even though a shift at the diner would sure as hell go by a lot faster and happier if I did. So, by process of elimination, the thing must be exactly what it looks like -- a bouquet of lollipops. Those giant ones that are supposed to last all day. In all the multi-coloured hues of the rainbow.

This would be a lot easier to deal with if it was some kind of weirdass acid trip.

I approach the counter warily, alert to danger. But the suckers just sit there, no trip-wire in sight. I snatch up the card propped against them, sure now that I've misunderstood the situation. This is something that Brian picked up for Gus. Or perhaps some misguided client gave it to Brian as a gift.

My hands are shaking a little as I slide open the envelope. The plain card inside bears only one word.

Bedroom.

I look immediately to the area in question, only now seeing that all the shutters are closed up tight. And a pair of dark silk sheets have been jury-rigged to the entranceways, effectively blocking all sightlines into the room. Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck.

I'm not sure if the ominous music I hear is coming from the stereo, or just my imagination. Either way, it's not helping.

"Brian?"

No response. I take a tentative step toward the bedroom before coming to an abrupt halt.

Now a lot has changed between me and Brian in the past year or so. I know that. But some things just stick in the memory whether a person wants them or not. Like falling in the mud on the way to see some lame theatre troupe in fifth grade, and being made to sit at the back in one of those folding chairs so I wouldn't get the plush padded chairs of the concert hall dirty. Nice centre shot, that one. Fucking teacher.

And being led to the bedroom expecting some fantabulous birthday surprise only to find some guy who supposedly looks like an underwear model that I may once have mentioned in passing to be hot -- yeah, that's definitely in the "stuck in the memory for keeps" category.

So I'm not entirely sure I want to choose what's behind Door Number One. Sure, it might be the fancy convertible. But with the way my luck goes, I'm just as likely to get the baby goat. With a red ribbon tied round its neck, of course.

"Brian?" I try again. Still nothing.

I take a deep breath and stand tall. Life with Brian is nothing if not an adventure. And I'm not that little twink afraid to stand up for himself anymore. So I step resolutely to the entranceway and fling open the makeshift curtain.

For a moment my tired little brain can't process what I'm seeing. Because… they're everywhere. Balloons, of all shapes and sizes, all of them bright yellow and all of them bearing the vacuous happy-face smile. Anchored to every available surface. It's a Mr. Smiley overload.

And in the middle of this sea of bobbing yellow latex, Brian lays sprawled on the bed. His silk robe is tied loosely around his waist. But my artists eye is drawn to the charcoal of the robe and the indigo of the sheets, and their contrast with the vibrantly coloured wrapping paper on the myriad presents surrounding him.

"Hey," Brian says casually, like this is an everyday occurrence. He shifts a little, revealing both a tantalizing glimpse of his body beneath the robe and… the cake. At this point I realize my mouth is hanging open, but fuck if I can get it to close. I'll just gape a little more, then I'll be done.

Brian dips one finger into the chocolate icing and swirls it around before sucking the slender digit into his mouth. I watch full red lips suck and lick at the delicacy, and fuck is it hot in here?

Finally he removes the finger, long pink tongue emerging to lave at his lips. He smiles, then gestures toward the bed. "Want some cake?"

I pounce.

* * *

Okay. Rolling around in chocolate frosting in the heat of the moment -- fine. More than fine, actually. Dried chocolate frosting in my hair four hours later -- really, really gross.

I give up trying to pick it out and let my head loll back on the pillow.

"Brian?"

The bed shifts and I glance toward him in time to see the minute grimace that passes over his face. Hamstrings. I know the feeling. My body is accustomed to the pull. Brian, not so much.

"Deb's giving me a birthday party on Sunday," I tell him. "We have to be there at four o'clock."

"Hmmm."

Well, that was easy. We should really do this reversal of fortunes thing more often. Brian gets all mellow and shit.

I decide to press my luck. "There's a theme."

Brian groans. "Emmett doesn't have enough to do with Fags For The Macarena or Gays Who Love Gerbils or whatever the fuck fundraiser he's into this week?"

"Apparently not."

Brian turns onto his side, wrapping his arm around my waist and sliding me through a sticky mound of cream filling to press against him. He buries his nose in my neck and I start to seriously wonder if we're going to spend the rest of the night attempting to sleep amongst the remains of ripped paper and smooshed Black Forest cake.

"Brian?"

The snuffling noise against my neck is my only response.

"The theme is 'the renaissance'."

Brian settles more firmly against me, his breathing becoming regulated. My hand traces circles along his back as my own eyes slip closed.

As I drift off to sleep I wonder: how long should I wait before telling him about the tights and the cod piece?


End file.
